Durin's Sons
by Kivrin
Summary: How greed and secrecy bred the most dangerous family in Scotland: An investigative journalism project by Faramir Stewart. Third part of the Sons of Durin 'verse, though it does not necessarily need to be read in order.
1. Chapter 1

So here's what's going on, my ducks! This series (alternately titled Faramir Investigates) will serve to show alternate viewpoints of the Sons of Durin before, during, and after their trials. Please note, I am not a journalist in any way, nor am I intimately familiar with Scottish politics or legalities, so I hope you will overlook any inaccuracies.

This project will also serve as a bridge between The Sons of Durin/Children of the Lonely Mountain and the, umm, sequel. Yeah. We're going there. Expect about 5-7 parts in this series, as I also finish up some of my other projects, and then we're heading into sequel territory properly. Yikes.

Seriously, I'm so excited to be diving back into this! I love this 'verse so much, and love getting to share it with you, and I can't wait!

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**Durin's Sons: How greed and secrecy bred the most dangerous family in Scotland.**

**By Faramir Stewart**

_Published March 2013. Read by Bilbo Baggins in the weeks before his first personal encounter with Gandalf and the Sons of Durin._

In the hills of Sterlingshire, much has changed in the last few hundred years. The land, the livestock, even the people themselves have suffered upheavals, by fire and sword and the whims of the politically strong. The mountains seem one of the few constants - hard and unshifting rock, still holding fast.

The legends of the locals have not changed, either. In tired little Tyndrum, at the foot of the most infamous mountain in these parts of Scotland, one mention of the name Durin will bring more attention than I could have expected.

'Durin comes back to look after us,' Tilda Bowman tells me. She is seven years old, and has lived in Tyndrum all her life. The stories of the mountains are in her bones. 'He was made out of our mountains, and he comes when we need him.'

I had hoped to speak to her father, Bard Bowman, who is something of a notable figure in the town, but he muttered about things he had to do elsewhere, and told his children not to speak to me. They do not seem perturbed.

The people of Tyndrum do not shudder at the name of Durin, or look over their shoulders, expecting silent menace from the shadows. They look up to the mountains and wait.

**The Lonely Mountain**

In Edinburgh, the name Durin has an entirely different connotation.

I had never given the Sons of Durin more thought than any other gang of thugs, until a private detective contacted me personally. His name must be withheld for reasons of security, but he advised me to look into the gang that has held the major cities of Scotland in fear these past years. For the past eight months, I have spoken to as many individuals connected with the case as I could locate, and have done my best to locate the actual documents and evidence that underlies the threat the Sons of Durin pose to polite society. In this three-part series, I will investigate the origins of this mysterious group, trace the story of their descent into crime and terror, and explore the reality of the threat they pose.

The story begins with a mountain. They often seem to, here in Scotland. Beinn Chuirn is an unimposing sight, one of many small mountains in the Sterlingshire landscape, and it seems far too peaceful and silent to be the source of the most frightening domestic terror group in recent history.

The residents of Tyndrum tell me that there have always been miners on Beinn Chuirn, though that is more poetry than fact. As it happens, the mountain was once the home of lead miners who made their homes near their mines, and who brought trade and livelihood to Tyndrum for nearly two centuries.

The people of Tyndrum don't talk much about the fact that the lead miners upset the wrong side of a political struggle, and watched their homes burn to the ground.

My particular interest in the mountain lies a bit later in history, though. I spoke with an older gentleman in the best pub in Tyndrum, hoping he would recall something of the beginnings of our story. He is an intelligent and charismatic man, with a canny eye for a business deal, as I discovered to the lightening of my wallet. He squinted up in the direction of the mountain as he reminisced.

'It would have been '87, I suppose, when it all started. It was old Thrain dying that started it, though I say it as shouldn't, as he was younger then than I am now, God save me.' He chuckles darkly. '1987, and he was dead of a bad heart, and young Thorin left to manage the whole lot, with the lead mines played out. Thought he was like to lose it all.'

He pauses then, and waited for me to order another round of drinks. I urge him to continue, and there is as much sorrow as anger in his face when he goes on.

'They found gold in '87, and that was the beginning of the end. Not that Thorin told anyone, mind - not but old Girion Bowman, and he kept it quiet until long after.'

This isn't the first rumour I have heard about gold or buried treasure. Some say the Sons of Durin are a money-laundering organisation, or involved in black-market operations with stolen gems. It's a different take on the nature of the mountain itself, though, and it gives me a new direction to explore.

The mountain is a lonely place, now. The Master of the town (or so he styles himself) points me in the direction of the clearest walking-path, up through Cononish Glen, and I find myself walking with the ghosts of the mountain. On an autumn day when the leaves are burning in shades of auburn and gold, the empty mines and abandoned ruins of the houses that once stood together in a quiet glen are unnaturally silent.

I snap pictures of the old houses from behind the high fence that is meant to keep the public out of the dangerous ruins. It feels a bit like desecration. If there was ever gold here, there is none now.

There is little to be found about gold in the official records. If what the people of Tyndrum say is true, Thorin and his kin would have applied for mining rights. There is no record of any such application, nor of test drillings or mineral exploration concessions. However, there is a perplexing note buried within a publication from the Minister of the Environment, and I spend a week buried in parliamentary history.

In 1992, under circumstances that are clearly billed as entirely unsuspicious, the Minister for the Environment died without warning, and was summarily replaced by a upcoming young politician known only by his surname. Smaug was well regarded in political circles and a popular figure in society when he took up the position. No-one had anything bad to say about him.

This is not generally a good thing, in politics.

Less than a week after taking his position, Smaug made history by dedicating the first national park in Scotland, encompassing the entirety of Thorin Oakenshield's mountain. (These lands were later incorporated into the Loch Lomond and the Trossachs National Park upon it's institution in 2002.) According to the records, Thorin was offered compensation for the land, but refused the money.

July 27th, 1992. The police record submitted by two officers identified only as Thranduil and Elrond was entered into the official documentation for this date, but significant portions were redacted. From what is remaining, the picture is only slightly clarified.

'Proceeded upon orders from (redacted) to remove trespassers from Crown Estate lands….Encountered resistance from Oakenshield and (redacted). Upon orders, we-'

The rest is a morass of black lines and omissions. A Fatal Accident Injuries report from the local Sheriff is attached, but with all the identifying information removed. There were deaths on Beinn Chuirn the night of July 27th, and no way to know who was killed.

Curiousity has always been one of my fatal flaws, and I pull up the photos I had snapped on the mountain and examine them in detail. The abandoned ruins of houses on the mountain look like they have lain open to the elements for long decades or centuries, rather than the bare twenty years since the removal of the inhabitants. As I look more closely, it becomes clear.

The tiny cottages of Beinn Chuirn did not fall to the elements. They were burned.

I call the office of the Minister of the Environment and ask for an interview.


	2. Chapter 2

The Minister for the Environment, known to the public and his staff alike only as Smaug, is a consummate politician. He looks every inch the part. He is perfectly put together, with the kind of grace and style one expects from a movie star rather than a public servant. I meet with him in his office, where the decor and ambiance all seem as completely calculated as every other aspect of his appearance, diction, and personal presentation. The message is clear: Smaug is not a man to be trifled with, nor one to anger easily. I am not unaccustomed to the trappings of power and dignity, but I find myself uneasy in the man's presence, much as a mouse might feel in the company of a lion.

"What manner of information are you seeking?" Smaug asks me immediately. There is no time for idle chatter with the man, but he is easily graceful and unfailingly polite. He is a man who knows the power he holds. I find myself a trifle wrongfooted.

"I'm interested in your National Parks initiative," I finally manage, hoping I have managed to start in the right place. "It seems so innovative. I wondered what sort of reactions you found to the whole endeavour."

His eyes bore into me, and I am not certain whether the man ever blinks. "You want to know about the mountain," he says slowly, his voice an amused drawl. "It's Oakenshield who interests you, isn't it?"

I have to admit it, and I find myself impressed in no small measure. Smaug chuckles, a rich, deep sound that fills the opulent office. It is dark and heavy with reds and golds. It is not a place of comfort.

Smaug leans back in his chair, swiveling idly from side to side as he watches me. "The man is an enigma, is he not? He seemed quite the dedicated family man when I met him all those years ago, and yet what has he done to his family? They are criminals now, when they might never have been anything but honest farmers or merchants or till-operators in any town in Scotland."

"So you have met him personally?" I press, leaning forward.

"He came to me with a - shall we say, proposal," Smaug murmurs. His voice is deep and smooth, but so quiet I can hardly hear it. "He had found gold in his little hill, and wanted to mine it himself. Can you imagine? No capital, no labour to speak of, no idea how deep or rich the seams went." He laughs a bit, shaking his head. I do not take my eyes off of him. "It was a losing proposition from the start, and I tried to help him see it. I offered him far more than the land was worth for the mineral rights alone, and the opportunity to play a role in the mining operations." His head shakes slowly, solemnly, as if in mourning. "Thorin Oakenshield was never one for well-considered choices. He acts in anger and haste, and it has cost more lives than even he could have anticipated."

"And what did you anticipate?" I asks quickly, feeling as though my nerve might fail. "What did you do, then, when he refused the offer?"

His smile is wide and toothy, spreading slowly across his face. "No good politician takes no for an answer," he purrs. "I could not stand by and watch such a man tear into the heart of the land so unprepared. It is better for it to stay untouched, a sanctuary for wildlife and nature lovers. Should we not defend our land against such deplorable greed, practiced by those with no love for anything but riches?"

I pulled out my copy of the official publication from Smaug's office on the opening of the national park, and push it across the desk, indicating the highlighted portion. "Then why does this state that the mineral exploration concessions are reserved, now and in perpetuity, to a company called Dragonstooth Ventures?" I think he nearly hissed at me, and he sat up quickly, eyes going cold and hard. I pushed on. "In fact, according to my research, Dragonstooth is your own company. Why assign yourself the mineral rights if your only concern is the natural state of the wilderness?"

"Mr. Stewart," Smaug growls - still polite, still low and steady, but there is a thrum of menace in the words. "You are yet young and untested, and your father tells me you have little understanding of business or politics. I would not expect you to comprehend the complexities of such arrangements."

"But surely-"

Smaug does not let me finish. He stands sinuously, and his very frame is a threat. "You wish to find a story here that will make your name known. One that will show your father the folly of his disregard. One that will prove you can change the world with your words, your feeble questions and flimsy papers. You would paint me as a villain if you could, young word-smith, and cast me down into infamy to make your mark on the world. You would make Oakenshield and his bunch of thugs and ruffians the heroes of the piece in order to show me as a weak and power-hungry politician who meddles in little gold mines for his own wealth." He looms over me, without ever moving from his place behind a heavy wooden desk.

"I am only looking for the truth! The public has a right to know what happened on that mountain." My hands shake as I hold up a sheaf of questions I still wish to ask, but I press on. "People died that night, Smaug, and I think you know who and why! I have an obligation to the truth, and to the public!"

"My dear boy." Smaug's voice is a chuckle now, and he sits down, tugging on his well-tailored suit coat to make it all hang perfectly again. "The day the people start to take interest in politics will be the day I hang up my claws and settle down into obscurity! Let us not lie to one another."

"Fine. Tell me then, as one honest man to another. Why Beinn Chuirn? If there is so little profit to be found there, why make it a battle? What was there that was important enough to fight Thorin Oakenshield for?"

"That is not mine to tell," Smaug says silkily. "I answer to far higher powers than a muck-raking journalist or his uninterested readership. But I will tell you that the gold is the least of our concerns for that mountain, and for Oakenshield and his gang." His eyes are dark and malevolent, but he seems as genial as any politician could hope to appear. "After all," he says cheerfully, settling back into a comfortable position in his chair and watching me through heavy-lidded eyes. "Isn't it all for the children? They are our legacy. A vibrant system of national parks will ensure their future wellbeing and connection to the land."

There is nothing more he will give me. I ask further questions, but find only the platitudes of politics or the rhetoric of the campaign pamphlet, and I leave with more questions than I had to begin with. I do not leave without some knowledge, though.

The first concern I now struggle with is for my own journalistic integrity and motivations in pursuing the story. You must judge for yourself, in reading this story, whether I have done as Smaug accused and sought only to sensationalise a story for my own profit. I am no longer certain of my own mind. That is the danger of conversing with Smaug, as I now know.

The second is more concrete, though no more ready to yield up answers. Who is it that Smaug works for, and what is their interest in a lonely little mountain in Sterlingshire? How is it that he feels so little concern for his future political prospects that he is willing to openly discuss a matter that would be dangerous to any career politician? In short, I leave his cavern feeling as though I have awoken a dragon who has full confidence in his armour, and will not hesitate to set fire to anything that stands in his path.

The Road Thus Far

It is not yet clear precisely what happened on Beinn Chuirn twenty years ago, but my investigations into the legal and judicial proceedings surrounding that evening are forestalled by a lack of available evidence. I turn my attention to the Sons of Durin themselves, and the road they have traveled in the past two decades.

More questions than answers are to be found when one looks into the heart of the criminal sector of society, and the Sons of Durin are no exception. No one can tell me how many they are, or where they make their headquarters. The name they have chosen for themselves speaks to their roots and the legends of their home, but I suspect it was not always endued with the sense of fear it now carries. They are an enigma, little more than a shadow behind the looming figure of Thorin Oakenshield himself.

My first real lead on the individual members of the group comes from Detective Inspector Thranduil, whose name I follow from the official police records of the night when Beinn Chuirn burned. Thranduil was there that night, and he grants me a brief audience. He speaks quickly, all business, and we conduct the interview at a brisk walking pace as he patrol the streets of Edinburgh, eyes sharp and constantly on the lookout for any dangers that may have invaded his territory.

"I myself will find them," he insists. There seems to be professional pride at stake, so I do not challenge that statement. "I have chased Oakenshield and his kin for two decades, and I am drawing close. I am a patient man. I can wait."

Thranduil tells me that they are looking for a dozen men, give or take a few rumoured accomplices. He has names and descriptions for at least ten of them, and lists them off for me with a speed that speaks to years of dedication, or perhaps obsession. Further questioning also wins me a list of names and addresses for several individuals who had lived on the mountain until it was forcibly cleared, though he admits these leads are likely no longer involved with Oakenshield and his followers.

What Thranduil will not discuss is the night he helped to clear the little mountain village where the miners and their families had lived. He passes me off to one of his subordinates when my questions become too pointed, and I find that Detective Tauriel is far less forthcoming about details - at least until I hit on the right topic.

"These last two names," I press, squinting down at my own rapidly scribbled notes. "Fill and Kill Oakenshield, is it? Are they Thorin's brothers? Sons?"

"Fili and Kili," she corrects me sharply, staring at me too-intensely, and then looking away quickly. "They are his nephews. Legally, their surname is Campbell, but they seem to have given that up since Thorin took over the raising of them. Don't be fooled by the fact that they're young, though. They may be the worst of the lot."

"How so?"

"We can't work out exactly what it is they do for him, but any time they are involved in a crime, we're left without a trace. We never find an electronic record or video evidence when they've come around, and all the witnesses had convenient sneezing fits or attacks of gout and can never seem to recall having seen or heard anything." She gives an annoyed huff at the thought, shaking her head. "The young criminal element practically worships those two these days. When we nab them, it will do great things for the youths programme."

She will give me no further information. Enquiries lodged with DI Elrond, the other police official of name in the incident reports from the night of the clearance, go unanswered. Without much further police assistance, I go back to the records and piece together what I can of the history of the Sons of Durin.

The name did not appear in any media for the first five years after they became homeless, and I cannot find any reason for it beginning to appear. They are simply there one day, making news headlines in Tyndrum at first, and then farther and farther afield. It starts with small things - food disappearing here, clothes vanishing from donation points there - and then grows in severity. Cars and motorbikes are targeted, never to be seen again. There are reports of bank robberies, muggings of the rich and powerful, fraud and theft of all descriptions. Arrests are made every now and then, and accusations of involvement with the criminal group known as the Sons of Durin are thrown about, but never seem to stick.

I look for Oakenshield's nephews in particular, having been given their full names, and I find an interesting incident. They were taken into care in 2000, following the death of their mother. My contact who put me on to the case was able to find me the name and address of one of the foster parents involved, and I wind up on the phone with Gracie McDonnell. She has met the Sons of Durin personally, and has the oddest perspective on the group I have heard to date.

"Their hearts are in the right places, Mr. Stewart," she assures me confidently. McDonnell has fostered children on and off for nearly a quarter of a century, and has seen her fair share of rough cases. "I only had the little one for a few days, but it was enough to let me see that he was deeply loved by those rough fellows. They went about things the wrong way, but I think they only ever meant the best."

"Didn't they steal half a dozen vehicles immediately after kidnapping the lad back from you?" I ask, though I already have the police reports in front of me.

"Oh, yes," she says. "And I know they would have done far worse if I hadn't given the boy back to them. I'm not under any delusion that they are saints. The Sons of Durin are desperate men who have been dealt a bad hand, and they are up against forces they don't know how to handle. I'll be the last one to judge them for any of that - not after I've seen the love they showed to those poor children."

I decide not to tell her that those poor children have grown up to be the terrors of Edinburgh's dark places, or that the young criminals of the cities are looking to them for inspiration.

The reputation of the Sons of Durin goes far beyond petty crimes and inspiring others to criminal lifestyles, of course, and it is here that I struggle to find evidence.

"Sons of Durin?" Mrs. Gamgee, a customer in a quaint little grocery in Linlithgow, scowls at the question. "Of course I know about them! They're terrorists, everyone knows that! They blow things up, I hear. They'd never blink at murdering us all in our own beds!"

"Environmental terrorists" is the conclusion reached by Aragorn Longshanks, a self-described anarchist vigilante in the Scottish Highlands. He does not object to their refusal to follow the rules of society, he is careful to point out. "Endangering that natural landscape, though - I can't abide by that. We have a duty to the land."

But there is no evidence of terrorism or murder in any of the official records, nor in the newspaper accounts that attribute every unexplained crime to the Sons of Durin. They are criminals, there can be no doubt of that, but the government is the only body that has offered any accusations of such magnitude, and they seem to have nothing substantial behind the labels. It seems these words come mostly from the office of none other than Smaug himself, and they have stood, unchallenged. There is no precedent for such a thing.

I reach out to another round of contacts with one particular question in mind: what danger are we in from the Sons of Durin? Is the mass opinion of the public correct, that we should cower in our beds from the ever-present danger of the mysterious and savage gang? Do they have the power their reputation would imply? Where will the next attack come from, and who should be afraid of the anger of Thorin Oakenshield?

I suspect Smaug should sleep with a weapon to hand.

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I forgot how addictive it was, writing Smaug. Writing in this 'verse at all. You guys are NEVER going to get rid of me now! I'm in the process of figuring out where everyone fits in this world, and it's still a bit in flux, but I love figuring out where people belong in this story.

I hope this is even a fraction as enjoyable for you to read as it is for me to write! Thank you so very much to those who have been reading - it means so much to me!


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